


Curse The Weather

by noblet



Category: Fake News RPF
Genre: M/M, Semi-Requited, Sexual Content, Smoking, Wifeless AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-14 13:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9184591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblet/pseuds/noblet
Summary: “Not so bad, is it?” Jon asks after they pull apart. His eyes are distant and Stephen wonders if he's being looked through rather than at.“Not so bad,” Stephen echoes. It's a soft affirmative, half-hearted and only half-truth, but it's not like Jon can tell the difference.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i made stephen succ dicc sorry guys

It's a Thursday night when Stephen walks by Jon's office, sees that the light is on, and lets himself in without knocking. Jon looks up from something on his desk, face shifting from acute concentration to well-meaning once he sees that it's him.

"Hi. Going home?" Jon asks. 

"Uh, yeah, planning to," Stephen says, then takes a seat although he doesn't expect to stay that long. "How about you?"

"Sure," is his short answer that really isn't. "Wanna hang out?" He dangles a dime bag in the air like it's a freshly-caught smelt.

“Are you serious?” Stephen looks at Jon with weary eyes and presses his spine into the back of his chair. 

Jon stares back with a bored expression. “Helps with the stress, I suppose.”

In the moment, Stephen can't find the courage to disagree. He doesn’t _agree_ , either. He’s just. Just.

He notices that Jon's desk is a mess of papers and unopened gifts and half-forgotten tasks that are crying to be completed. It's a beautiful, chaotic balance of work and pleasure and Jon doesn't seem to be bothered any of it.

"You know how to roll?" Jon asks. 

Stephen shakes his head and almost scoffs, watches as Jon licks the end of a small sheet of wrap. He decides to look at the clock instead. It's nearing twelve.

Jon pulls a lighter out of one of his drawers and holds the flame up to the end of his joint, lifts it to his lips and sucks in beatifically.

He sticks his arm out after a while and Stephen realizes they've yet to break the silence. He watches as smoke from the tip drifts up to the ceiling in lazy, curving strokes. 

He steels his nerves and leans over the table to take the joint from Jon’s grip. Their fingers brush for a fleeting, fragile moment, over before Stephen's able to register the contact in his mind.

He feels Jon staring at him as he brings the end up to his lips and inhales slowly. Holds it in his lungs, proper and just, does it the same way he’s watched friends in college do it a hundred times before until his head feels light and he finally exhales sharp and desperate. He coughs until there are tears in his eyes and hands it back with trembling fingers to Jon, who takes a drag like it’s nothing.

He clicks his tongue, small smile playing on his face. “Not cut out for it, Colbert?” The way he says his last name makes it sound like a taunt. 

Stephen shakes his head and wonders if it’s appropriate to laugh if Jon isn’t. He's torn because he doesn’t want Jon to think he’s boring, or prim, or stuffy, or, or- “It's not, really, uh, my thing,” he manages, and his leg begins to bounce. 

It really is getting late.

“It’s okay.” Jon nods. Stephen's never seen him like this, so lax and uncaring and reckless. A tiny part of Stephen wants to leave, but he doesn't. It's fascinating.

And perhaps that is his vice: the fact that curiosity has always gotten the best of him. He's too nosy, too interested in the people and things around him. He wants to see what Jon's like when he's undone. There's something about him that still seems hostile, like he's hiding behind twenty layers and Stephen's barely scratched the surface.

"What's your favorite color?" Stephen asks abruptly. It's a stupid question, but Jon doesn't look like he's going to act a harsh judge anytime soon.

"Gray," he says matter-of-factly, smoke sliding out of his mouth as he does so. He extends his arm again but Stephen declines.

"Gray," Stephen echoes. "Why?"

"It's neutral," Jon says. "It's safe. Doesn't attract attention."

"Oh," is all Stephen thinks to say.

"What about you?" Jon asks. Stephen's caught off guard by the question before remembering it's just common courtesy.

He actually racks his mind for an honest answer. He's never thought about colors much. "Gold," he decides.

Jon laughs, that same high-pitched giggle Stephen's always heard on set. "Why am I not surprised?"

"I like to win," Stephen shrugs.

"Competitive?" Jon asks.

"Isn't it obvious?" Stephen rhetorizes. 

"Not really, no," Jon says. "Thought you just liked the attention."

"The two go hand in hand."

"Do they?"

"Yeah, they do," Stephen says. "Just like... Bush and an inability to spell."

Jon laughs, then makes a move for Stephen's tie.  _That's new._

Stephen doesn't usually wear the suit out of taping, but tonight he was too tired to change out of it, figured he'd fall asleep in it once he got home. He wonders if maybe Jon's got a thing for this, the whole professional look, and smirks.

“Come here,” Jon says as he gently tugs the end of it. Stephen's so transfixed he begins to move without thinking. He joins Jon where he's sitting on the other side of the desk and leans into the warm hand that strokes up the base of his neck, gentle fingers on the edge of his scalp feel good, feel  _great._ Stephen shivers.

"You know, they told me you weren't funny," Jon says.

"They?" Stephen questions.

"Our bosses."

"Oh."

Jon leans in until their lips are touching and exhales, lets the smoke escape his lungs all at once. The action is intimate and firm and Stephen tries his best to not shake. There's that sour taste in his mouth again, it makes Stephen feel sick to his stomach and every part of him wants to recoil except he doesn’t, is willing to do anything if it means Jon will kiss him like this. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, so they awkwardly float inches above his own knees.

“Not so bad, is it?” Jon asks after they pull apart. His eyes are distant and Stephen wonders if he's being looked through rather than at.

“Not so bad,” Stephen echoes. It's a soft affirmative, half-hearted and only half-truth, but it's not like Jon can tell the difference.

Jesus, his heart is racing. It shouldn't be.

“Here, try again.” He sticks out the cigar and Stephen wonders why he doesn't think to stop himself. He's smarter than this, but Jon's looking at him intently and there's something about those imposing eyes that make him feel lost. His gaze slips from Jon's lips to his outstretched hand and Stephen can't think of anything else to do but accept. He pinches the joint at the end and sucks in until it burns short in his fingertips.

Stephen can’t tell if he does it because he wants to be defiant or if it’s an addiction. There’s a lot of things about Jon Stewart he doesn’t yet know and he hates the ambiguity of his words, the blind trust that comes with working for him, it’s dangerous, alluring. There's still so much he's yet to learn. (Seems to like the color gray, though. He knows that at least.)

They sit together and pass back and forth until their throats are burning and their eyes are wet and Jon just talks because Stephen can't and he sits there and absorbs every single word like he's a fucking sponge. 

"Stephen," Jon says, and it's like he's being pulled out of a daydream. "Stephen," he says again, and it's beginning to sound like some beautiful mantra. He's still got his hand wrapped around his tie, although there's some slack to it.

"Yeah?" Stephen answers, voice airy. He's never done anything like this before. The high is hitting him slowly, and he can't tell if he likes it or not.

"You ever get fucked in an office before?" Jon asks, and Stephen's so caught off guard that he begins to cough until he's nearly crying again. By the time he's able to speak Jon's already finished laughing at his shock.

" _Christ_ , that's uncouth," Stephen manages.

Jon raises a brow. "Sorry?"

"Means dirty. Er, awkward. I thought you'd know."

"I'm not exactly in the right frame of mind at the moment," Jon says, unbothered.

And then there's _another_ joint,  _another_ light. Empty spaces between their words grow longer and longer as time slows to a crawl. Stephen starts to wonder if Jon was being serious when he'd asked the question.

They're sitting so close now, thigh to thigh on the face on Jon's desk, as cluttered as it is. Jon gives him a look Stephen's only seen a few times in his life, it's like they've known each other for ages and they can read each other's minds, or maybe it's just the weed.

Jon pulls him in for a kiss again, longer this time, slower. Stephen places a hand on Jon's knee, and Jon makes a noise between a whimper and a groan, and it's nothing short of enthralling.

All actions he makes from there on out are vague and uncertain. Stephen isn't quite sure when or how he finds himself on his knees but that doesn't stop him from fumbling with Jon's belt as he curses under his breath with each unsuccessful effort. Jon's got a hand tangled in his hair, confident and practiced and Stephen wonders if they're both thinking the same thing.

That he's doing this for the attention. Definitely for the attention. Because during pitch meetings and rehearsals Jon's always focused on something else, some _one_ else and Stephen knows envy is a sin but he just can't help it. It's a curse he can control as much as the weather. It's an itch he can't scratch, this need to be praised by Jon, to be wanted, to be  _desired._ It's terrible.

His fingers twitch against Jon's already hard cock and he sets his mouth on it, spatially aware of his teeth. It's been awhile since he's done- _this,_ and Stephen's afraid Jon's going to do something, crack a joke, make a comment that would send him crumbling into a heap of hesitancy, but he never does, and Stephen is thankful.

He pauses to lick a wet streak against the palm of his hand and slowly jerks him off, watches Jon's eyes widen only to close as he curses against a clenched fist. The high is starting to wear off but Stephen knows that he still wants this, that  _Jon_ still wants this, and- God- it's fucking midnight on a Thursday and Stephen's blowing his fucking boss in the fucking office while everybody else is fucking sleeping at home. It's funny in a twisted way because God knows he's done much worse.

Jon comes with a sigh, Stephen's name on his lips. That's what Stephen wants, to hear Jon say it, say it, his name, Stephen, over and over and over and over- And this time it doesn't sound like a taunt or a mantra. It sounds like a relief.

The ordeal is over just as quick as it had started. 

The room is suddenly stuffier than they'd both remembered. Jon looks sorry he doesn't have any more weed.

"I wasn't, um, serious," Jon says as Stephen leans back on his heels. "You know."

"I know," Stephen says.

Stephen sets his glasses on and wonders if they're going to ever talk about this again. They probably won't, and he's fine with that. Honestly, he's fine.

He steals a quick glance at the clock and grits his teeth. "Fuck, it's getting late."

**Author's Note:**

> forgot to make Jon swallow the roach sorry to disappoint


End file.
